Evelyn Marsh

by S. W. Clemens

“What’s she majoring in?” Brooke asked.

  “Biology. Premed. She wants to be an anesthesiologist.”

  “At least now you have more time to paint,” Connie said.

  “Well, that’s one consolation. But there’s not enough life in the house. It feels very isolating. I rarely get out. As a matter of fact, I had to deliver Howard’s briefcase this morning, and it was the first time I’d been to the office since my father retired last year. By the way, I saw your ex.”

  “Which one?”

  “Albert, of course.”

  “What does he have to say?”

  “Nothing nice.”

  The waiter arrived with the menus. When they ordered a bottle of Riesling, he asked for Brooke’s driver’s license. He held it a long time, looking from the license to Brooke and back. “The picture doesn’t do you justice. I wouldn’t have thought you were a day over nineteen,” he said with a wink.

  Brooke smiled at the compliment as he walked away. “He’s cute.”

  “You said you had something to tell me,” Evelyn said, looking to Connie. “Have you sold another of my paintings?”

  Connie was the proprietor of The Whitfield Gallery on State Street. “Not this month. It’s a hard sell at that price point, if you’re not well known. But I expect sales to pick up with the summer crowd.”

  “You can always lower the price, if you think that would help. I won’t mind.”

  “Are you working on anything new?” Brooke asked.

  “I’m always working on something.”

  “I know we haven’t sold much, but I really love your work. I think it has great potential...that is, I don’t mean to say your work is less than it could be. I mean to say that it has great commercial potential. I’m always amazed at the really good local artists who can’t make a living with their art, and I think you can.”

  “Not that she has to,” Connie commented.

  It might have been an innocent remark, but there was something subtly snide in her tone, Evelyn thought.

  “You don’t know how blessed you are,” Connie said and, turning to Brooke, added, “She has a life most of us would die for.”

  “It’s true. I admit it,” Evelyn said. “I have a very comfortable life. I think that’s probably what’s held me back. I’ve never had to sell my work. And I didn’t think I had the time to give it a go until the kids went off to college. You know I don’t work very fast. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a perfectionist, which is not always to my advantage.”

  “You don’t have to work fast to be successful with your art,” Connie said, giving Brooke her cue.

  Brooke rested her ample bosom on the table as she leaned forward and began speaking in an excited, conspiratorial tone.

  “I thought of you last weekend when I was up in Half Moon Bay and came across this store on Main Street.”

  She was interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with a bottle of wine in an ice bucket on a stand. He made a ritual of it, ceremoniously popping the cork and pouring a tiny bit into Brooke’s glass. She tasted it and smiled up at him. Then he poured a few ounces into Connie’s and Evelyn’s glasses. Lastly, he poured an extra measure into Brooke’s glass and set it before her with a flourish. He wrapped the neck of the bottle in a cloth napkin before placing it back in the ice. “Have you decided?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully to avoid looking at Brooke’s cleavage.

  When he’d left with their orders Brooke said, “I think he’s angling for a big tip.”

  “I think he’s angling for more than that,” Connie said.

  Brooke smiled with self-satisfaction, well aware of the effect she was having on the young man. “As I was saying,” she continued, “I came across this store. It’s not a gallery, per se, because it doesn’t represent a lot of different artists. It’s just the work of one artist, Monica Surtees, but instead of just original paintings, she also sells all different-sized giclée reproductions, some framed, some unframed, some on canvas, some laminated, some limited edition signed pieces. The same artwork is on everything from mugs and calendars, to notepads and coasters, refrigerator magnets, place mats, postcards, posters — you name it. She even has a tabletop book and a coloring book. It’s a brilliant concept. You know how much time you spend on a painting? Now, instead of being paid once for all that work, you can be paid over and over and over. For years! And everything you sell is like an advertisement for the original painting and for your work in general. Every morning when so-and-so picks up a mug with your painting on it, she’ll be reminded of you and your work.”

  “It really is quite brilliant,” Connie said. “It’s the wave of the future.”

  “And it wouldn’t cost much to start the business,” Brooke added.

  “Don’t you need a catalogue of work?” Evelyn asked. “You only have...what? Three of my paintings? And I have only a dozen or so at home.”

  “You have twenty years of work,” Connie protested.

  “But it doesn’t belong to me. I gave most of them away.”

  “They’re all within your reach,” Connie said. “They’re in the homes of friends and family. And you have I don’t know how many at the law office. You only need to borrow them long enough to have them scanned. Everyone would be happy to help.”

  “How much do you think it would cost?”

  “Not worth thinking about. You’d make back any investment in short order. What I propose is this: at The Whitfield Gallery, we’ll continue to sell originals. We’ll also sell limited edition, large format, signed prints. All the peripheral items, smaller prints, and accessories would be marketed at the Evelyn Marsh Gallery and Gift Shop, or whatever you want to call it. You could refer clients to us. We’d refer clients to you. We could even do cross promotions.”

  “Wow,” Evelyn said, “that’s a lot to consider. You think it would work?”

  “Positively.”

  After they’d eaten, Brooke left to reopen the gallery, while Connie and Evelyn lingered over their wine. The waiter came with the check and took Connie’s credit card with a, “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll be right back.”

  Connie raised an eyebrow at his retreating back. “Ma’am?” she scoffed. “I hate that.”

  “Well, he’s just a boy. I expect we’re invisible to him.”

  “He’s not that young,” Connie said indignantly, “and I’m not that old.”

  Evelyn restrained her tongue. She had never asked, but she thought Connie was around thirty-seven or thirty-eight. She’d become the trophy wife of Albert Katz a decade earlier, the ex-Mrs. Katz five years later, and she still judged herself by the reaction she drew from men.

  Evelyn hated to acknowledge it, but she’d felt her own self-worth slip a notch or two as her youth faded. Menopause was as hard on self-esteem as on libido. She’d been told she was still a good-looking woman, but now that compliment might come, verbally or implied, with the qualification “for your age.” With each passing year, it took more effort to look her best, and she would never again regain that inner glow and purity of skin that young women took for granted.

  “He was practically drooling over Brooke,” Connie added resentfully.

  Evelyn considered replying, “It comes to all of us sooner or later,” but thought better of it. She’d seen the way men ogled Connie; she still had many good years ahead of her.

  Evelyn sipped her wine looking down on the pool. “You have a pool, don’t you? What pool service do you use? My guy’s retiring.”

  Connie brightened at the question. “I use The Pool Boy.”

  “Which one?”

  “No, that’s the name of the company: The Pool Boy. And his name is Ramon.” Her eyes grew mischievous and she smiled. “He’s hot, dark, and gorgeous.”

  “Is he reasonable?”

  “He’s hot, dark, and gorgeous,” Connie repeated. “You want The Pool Boy.”
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  CHAPTER FOUR

  Howard had interned one summer at Hightower, Marsden & Katz while studying for the bar, before Evelyn’s junior year at UCSC. They’d each been drawn to the other by virtue of the contrast they represented to their respective peers. Evelyn’s classmates were aspiring artists, impractical dreamers, iconoclasts, and idealists all, who preferred partying to studying, and who excused bad behavior as “artistic temperament.” And even though she saw herself in her classmates, she knew they were unrealistic, childish, and unreliable, whereas Howard was mature and pragmatic like her father. Howard’s classmates were ambitious, directed, practical, and accepting of the status quo. And even though he saw himself in his classmates, he knew they were self-serving and boring, whereas Evelyn was a joyous free spirit, spontaneous, and creative. He also appreciated her feminine form, and if he were honest with himself, he knew that marrying the boss’s daughter was a good career move.

  When they married, he was making a comfortable salary as an associate attorney, which left Evelyn free to pursue her art. Her paintings in the early days chronicled her daily life. Subjects included a playpen empty of all but abandoned toys; a trail of Cheerios leading down a dark hallway past a castoff doll to a patch of light spilling from an open door; and a boy’s bedroom strewn with all of its appurtenances, with curtains billowing before an open window.

  There was never a time when she stopped painting, though after a time, childcare occupied the majority of her day. Howard, of course, did very little around the house, as he was busy at work. It made sense from the standpoint of a division of labor that the burden of childrearing should fall on her shoulders. As a result, turning her art into a business had never been a priority. Besides, she had never been adept at marketing. So, in an era when a two-wage-earner family was the norm, and women were encouraged to work outside the home, she had unwittingly become a housewife like her mother. Not that she regretted it. Her children were her best creations.

  She had given up on ever selling her paintings until Connie Katz had approached her a year earlier. Having seen the treasure trove of paintings that graced the walls of the law offices and Evelyn’s own home, Connie had asked to represent her, and in the ensuing months had sold four paintings. Now Brooke had shown her how she could connect with a greater public, and the idea excited her.

  She wanted to share her enthusiasm with Howard. Dinner was ready at six. At seven forty-five, she ate a few bites and put the rest in the refrigerator. Howard came at twenty past eight.

  “I wish you’d told me you were working late again,” she said. “I would have made a later dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry anyway,” he sighed. He crossed the foyer to his office and set down his briefcase.

  “Are you feeling all right?” She reached up to feel his forehead.

  He feinted to the left and brushed her hand away. “What are you doing?”

  “You don’t have a fever?”

  “No, why?”

  “You look flushed. Your hair is damp.”

  “I stopped off at the gym on the way home.”

  “Good for you. I should join. We could work out together.”

  She followed him down the hall.

  “I don’t think you’d like it,” he sighed.

  “Connie says they have a Pilates class for women.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t hang out with that woman.”

  “She’s my agent.”

  “She’s my business partner’s ex, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”

  “It’s awkward.”

  “Here, let me take your coat.”

  “Not now. Do you want a gin and tonic?”

  “No, thanks. I only like gin and tonic on a hot summer’s day.”

  Howard fixed himself a tall glass and proceeded to the living room, where he kicked off his shoes and flopped into an easy chair. “A client is flying into town the Saturday after next. I’ve invited him and his wife to dinner here,” he said, wiggling his toes.

  “You might have asked me first.”

  “This is an important client. He represents a conglomerate that’s looking into acquiring vineyards and a winery. It’s important to keep him happy.”

  “He’d be happier if we took him out to a restaurant. I’m not a gourmet cook.”

  “This is more personal. It’s a proven fact that people do business with people in their same social set.”

  “What am I supposed to cook?”

  “They’re from Texas. Let’s give them something local. Dungeness crab would be nice.”

  “Should I make crab enchiladas, crab cakes, or crab sandwiches?”

  “I don’t care. You’re the cook. Figure it out.”

  She was momentarily put off by his curt tone. Early in their marriage he’d been attentive and courteous. Even when the first blush of marital bliss had faded, there had been mutual respect. They’d both been proud of how well ordered their lives had become, how well they’d handled the transition from newlyweds to parents. Later, however, Howard had begun to feel neglected and resentful of the children, and now that they were young adults and lived apart, he seemed unsure of what purpose his marriage held. She often found he was impatient with her through no fault of her own.

  “Will they be bringing wine?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have a couple of bottles set aside in case he doesn’t — maybe something from the vineyard they’re looking at. Chardonnay and Pinot.”

  “Maybe we should tailor the meal to the wine then.”

  “Yes, that would be good.” Howard sipped his drink. “And Evy?”

  She tensed at the use of her nickname. “Hmmm?”

  “I don’t want a repeat of the last fiasco. These people are from Texas. They don’t share your politics, so stick to something you know about.”

  Evelyn bristled. “What? I can’t have an opinion?”

  “It’s business, Evy. It’s not fun and games. These people pay our bills. It’s not good business to insult them. Just make polite conversation. You can do that.” He pointed the remote at the television, which came on in the middle of a sitcom, effectively dismissing her.

  Yes, she could make polite conversation with complete strangers; she’d done it before. It was her concession to Howard for the sacrifices he made. She knew the routine. They would have drinks, then give them a house tour. Howard liked to show off her house, as he felt it proffered the mantle of “old money,” of the noblesse oblige that came with wealth and privilege, and it established his place in the pecking order. If length of stay conferred ownership, he had a right to claim it as his own, and Evelyn herself had no problem with his referring to it as “our house,” but it rankled to be told how to act and what to say in a home she owned free and clear. “I have no interest in discussing politics, but if it’s thrown in my face I won’t be silent. Besides, that last time had nothing to do with politics, and everything to do with common decency.”

  “You provoked him.”

  “I provoked him?” she asked incredulously.

  “Now, Evy, don’t be difficult; I don’t ask that much of you. My clients pay our bills. The least you can do is be pleasant on the few occasions I bring them home.”

  “The man was a fascist and a racist.”

  “Sometimes I think you have the emotional maturity of a three-year-old.”

  His hectoring tone provoked her ire. If she’d had a drink in her hand, she thought, she might have thrown it at him at that moment. Instead she gazed at her reflection in the French doors and waited for her resentment to pass. She had planned to share her excitement about the possibility of opening a gift shop of her own work, but the argument had soured her on conversation.

  She left him without another word and went upstairs to the library to make a list of all of her
paintings that currently hung in her own home, in her parents’ home, in the law offices, and in the homes of friends to whom she’d given gifts over the years. It was a remarkable body of work for one who had only recently sold her first painting. Then again, the issue had never been about the quality of her work, but the complete lack of commercialization.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Howard was toweling off after his morning shower.

  She sat on the end of the bed. “I had lunch with Connie and Brooke yesterday. Do you know Brooke?”

  “No, who?”

  “Brooke.”

  “No.”

  “She’s Connie’s assistant. Anyway, she had an interesting idea.”

  Howard dropped his towel on the floor. Evelyn explained the opportunity as Howard began dressing, only half his attention focused on her spiel. When she was finished, he smirked. “You shouldn’t pay attention to what other people have to say.”

  “No, but doesn’t this make sense? I think it could work.”

  “What do you know about business?”

  “Nothing, but...”

  “Exactly. That’s what I’m saying. You don’t have a business mentality. You’re a creative type. Don’t try to be what you’re not. You’d hate it.”

  “I thought you’d be excited. I might not make much at first, but maybe enough to…”

  “We don’t need the money,” he interrupted, selecting a tie.

  “It’s not all about money. It’s...I just haven’t had much to do since the kids left home. I thought this would give me a good excuse to get out of the house, share my work.”

  “Listen to yourself. Be realistic; you know nothing about business. It might sound easy, but you wouldn’t even have time to paint. There’s overhead. You’d have to set up a corporation, have insurance, pay rent, pay employees, get permits, stock inventory. Jesus, Evy, get real. You’re not suited to business.”

  “Connie could help.”

  “You know what I think about Connie. The less you see of her the better.”

  She had never considered Howard to be unsupportive. He’d always praised her paintings, but it seemed he only accepted painting as her hobby. Since she’d begun selling her work, he’d become dismissive. Now he left her feeling deflated.